


Between The Pages

by WolfieOnAO3



Series: Before The Ides Of March [4]
Category: Raffles (TV 1977), Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Angst, Boarding School, Character Study, Crime&Christmas2020, Epistolary, Friendship, Gen, Love, School, Young Bunny, christmas past, schooldays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27861917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: ‘A letter!' I cried excitedly. I didn’t often receive letters; my parents never wrote, I had no siblings, and no extended family, and my only friend was Dodo. Well, Dodo was nearly my only friend. I had but one other, and he did, on occasion, write to me...Christmas, 1882. Bunny receives a letter.For the Crime&Christmas2020 prompt, 3: Christmas Past
Series: Before The Ides Of March [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136807
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5
Collections: Crime & Christmas 2020





	Between The Pages

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part 4 of the series _Before The Ides Of March_ , and is best read in order!

_December, 1882_

I was sitting in my study on the last day of term, scribbling out my last few Christmas cards at my desk, when I heard familiarly irregular footsteps racing down the hallway outside. 

‘Come in, Dodo,’ I called out as the owner of the thudding feet came to a halt outside of my door.

‘I say, Harry, old man,’ came the out-of-breath voice of my best friend, William “Dodo” Rosering, as he poked his head around my study door, ‘how did you know it was me? I hadn’t even knocked, yet!’

‘Must be one of those spiritualist mind readers you were telling me about,’ I laughed.

‘If you are, then tell me what I’ve got in my jacket pocket,’ Dodo said as he tripped into my study, kicking the door shut behind him and tumbling to sit on the floor by the hot pipes which just about kept my study from completely freezing over during the winter months. The Sixth years’ studies had their own woodburners – some even had fireplaces – but at just shy of sixteen, and still only in middle fifth, I was stuck in one of the tiny, frigid, undesirable studies on the ground floor. 

‘Sneaked mince pies?’ I suggested.

‘In the pocket of my best jacket?’ Dodo cried. ‘I think _not_!’

‘Um… A new Bret Harte book?’

‘How big do you think my pockets are?’

‘A letter from the Queen?’

‘Close enough,’ Dodo grinned, producing from his pocket two letters, one addressed to me, and one to him. 'Might be, from the Queen, after all; though I don’t see any royal seals or anything fancy like that. Perhaps they’re secret missives recruiting us to become spies?’ 

‘A letter!' I cried excitedly. I didn’t often receive letters; my parents never wrote, I had no siblings, and no extended family – at least none I knew well enough that they should write to me – and my only friend was Dodo. Well, Dodo was _n_ _early_ my only friend. I had but one other, and he did, on occasion, write to me. I scrambled out of my chair in my eagerness to grab my letter from out of Dodo’s hand, and pushed up to sit beside him on the floor next to the warm pipes.‘I hope it’s from Raffles! I haven’t heard from him since the end of Spring term!'

‘Wait, wait, wait!’ Dodo added, keeping me from immediately opening my letter. He rummaged through his satchel and pulled out two unassuming parcels. 'There’re these, too! One for you, and one for me! Stupid praeposter just left them out on the post table where anyone could've pinched them… I think mine’s from my Uncle Ted, he’s the only person I know who sends me parcels. I bet yours _is_ from Raffles, Harry. Maybe it’s a Christmas present from him! He sent you that scarf last year, didn’t he? The one you didn't stop wearing until May, and put back on again as soon as it got just the tiniest bit chilly.'

‘Yes,’ I replied distractedly, paying little attention to Dodo's good-natured teasing as I took the small, rectangular package from him with reverential carefulness. I turned it over in my hands, but it bore no return address. ‘I suppose it might be from Raffles,' I said. 'The handwriting looks like his.’

‘Looks book-shaped to me,’ Dodo said. 'The parcel, that is, not the handwriting. Are you going to open it?’

‘No; I’ll read the letter, first. If it _is_ a Christmas gift I don't want to open it early, do I? Are you going to wait to open–’ I stopped my question short as I looked up to see Dodo already excitedly tearing into his parcel. ‘Of course you're not,’ I giggled. ‘Dodo, you're so impatient!'

‘Look, if it was for Christmas, Uncle Ted would send it to my grandparents’ house, wouldn’t he? If he sent it here, it's probably a book grandfather would disapprove of – though he disapproves of practically anything that isn't the bible. Oh, _yes!’_ This latter exclamation came upon the discovery that he had, as he had guessed, been sent a book. ‘It’s the new Harry Castleton! Oh, _brilliant!’_

As Dodo pored over his new book, I opened my letter and began to read.

_Dear Bunny,_

_Merry Christmas!_

_I’m sorry it’s taken me so unforgivably long to reply; I have no excuses for my abominable slowness, and won’t insult you by trying to make any. Only know that I received your last three letters with happiness, and finished reading them in much better spirits than when I started._ _This_ _letter should, Gods willing, reach you just before you leave school for the Christmas vacation. If not, then you’ll no doubt be reading this at the start of January term; in which case Happy New Year – and happy sixteenth birthday for the end of the month!_

 _How is school treating you, Bunny? I rather got the impression from your last letter that you weren’t having too jolly a time of it? Old Scrafton always was a devil in a schoolmaster’s guise. If it consoles you at all he gave me just as hard a time of it when I was in his set. Try not to take it too personally when he’s an ass to you, my boy; the brighter you are, the worse he needles you, so I don’t wonder you’ve been singled out. Fight valiantly day-to-day, Bunny, as the bard said, and keep your chin up! Although, in saying that… you mentioned that you’ve been having trouble with some of the other boys again? Please do_ _try_ _not to get into any more fist fights, Bunny. It’s really not worth it, and even if you win the bout, it shan’t do you any good in the long run. Of course, if you’re backed into a corner, give them Hell; but my advice would be to ensure you_ _never get backed into corners_. _You’ve a good brain in that blond head of yours, my boy:_ _use it_ _, not your fists! As to your academic woes, don’t worry – no one likes trig’, and anyone who claims to is lying. Mathematics is useful only for balancing your cheque book and keeping score of the cricket!_

 _I have some news on that front, actually, Bunny, that both you and your pal Mr Rosering – and do send him my regards, by the way, if he isn’t in fact already reading this over your shoulder – will no doubt be rather interested to hear: I have been selected to play for the English team against Australia in the Test match over Christmas._ _In Australia. _ _Jolly long way to travel for a cricket match, I know, but quite the adventure, and they really do play some top class cricket out there; I’m sure I’ll learn a thing or two, and come back a better man for it! And what fun to play cricket in December! Infinitely superior to rugby, I’m sure you’ll agree._

 _Getting there is an adventure in itself. The voyage, so I am told, takes on average between ten to twelve weeks; but I have been speaking with the First Mate, and he told me that the_ Thermopylae _once made it in eight. We’ve left in ample time, though. We aren’t due to play until December, and we boarded the ship on September 7th, reason being both to allow for any unexpected delays, and to give us time to get used to the climate upon arrival, and, naturally, to have a few practice matches on their pitch to get the feel for it. But the sooner the ship gets to Melbourne the better, as far as I am concerned. It was fun enough for the first week or so, but a month in and I must confess I really am beginning to long for the feel of earth beneath my feet! Any dreams of becoming Raffles: Sailor! have long since withered in my breast, I am sorry to say. Ulysses I am not._

At this point in my silent reading of Raffles' letter my concentration was interrupted by Dodo excitedly clamouring over the news that Raffles was to play for England in Australia. I had distantly acknowledged his chin coming to rest on my shoulder whilst I was halfway through the second paragraph, but I was so used to Dodo reading over me that I had hardly even noticed it. I didn't mind. I knew Raffles never put anything to paper that would cause him trouble should it get into the wrong hands (a fact which on occasion disheartened me, as I still harboured distant and immature dreams of being Raffles' epistolary confidante), but in any case, Dodo's were far from the _wrong_ hands. Outside of _my_ hands, Dodo's were the next best ones for Raffles' letters to fall into. He had been Kitty Hopkins' fag, after all. I suspect Dodo was in possession of as many secrets as I was; and he was, in my lasting opinion, an eminently trustworthy guardian.

'Shut up, Dodo,' I complained. 'If you can't read quietly I shan't let you.'

'But, but–!'

'Shh!'

Dodo impatiently shut up, and I continued. 

_As I am writing this, we are sailing somewhere along the South West coast of Africa. We’re putting in at the Cape of Good Hope in a week – I shall get this letter off to you from a post office there. I do hope it reaches you, Bunny; I hate to think of leaving you waiting nearly an entire year for my reply. I have no idea what the postal service is like out here, but I suppose it must be all right; people do send international mail, so the infrastructure must be sound enough. I really ought to have written you before boarding. In point of fact I_ _did_ _write you a letter before leaving – but forgot to post it. Found it in my suitcase a week into the voyage, wedged in between the pages of one of my volumes of Keats._

 _Anyway, supposing this_ _has_ _reached you, by the time you are reading I should have long since landed upon Australia’s sunny shores. So if you think of me, Bunny, displace me from the dreary Dreaming Spires, and stick me instead on glorious greens beneath superlative antipodean sunshine! I’m planned to be out there until the New Year – maybe I’ll even have Christmas on the beach! I’ve heard they go in for that, out there._

_I have sent a parcel along with this letter – hopefully you’ve received it. I am going to tie them together in the hope that they might arrive as one body, but if not then look out for one in coming days. You'll no doubt have noticed that I've put no return address upon either this letter or the parcel: this is because, for the moment, I don't have one. When I myself am delivered back to the beloved Patria, and know rather more what I am about, I'll drop you a note with whatever address I come to use; but until then I am absolutely as free as a lark on the breeze. Don't send anything to Oxford, Bunny – I shan't be going back there._

_I was very glad to hear that you've decided to throw your name into the hat for editor of the mag in the New Year, by the way! If you don’t get picked this year, don’t take it to heart; it’ll be on account of your age, rather than your ability. If you ask me, there's no one better for it – I'm sure that under your plucky leadership the old school paper will be rivaling_ The Times _and the_ Illustrated London News _, whether this year or next. Good luck with it, Bunny! And thank you for sending me clippings of your poems and articles; I enjoy reading them very much. I particularly liked your poem on the theme of Tiberius and Vipsania; tragic, romantic, yet never quite maudlin. Really made me think about the old dog in a new light. Excellent stuff, Bunny!_

 _My very warmest regards, seasons greetings, best wishes, and all the rest of it_ _most sincerely_ _,_

_A.J.R._

Upon finishing Raffles’ missive I leaned back against the wall to think. Dodo leaned over me to pick up the letter I’d let fall to my lap, and quickly caught up with the last paragraph, at which point he let out a low whistle.

‘I say, old boy! What do you make of that! Didn’t I always say old Raffles would make the England team one day? But even I didn’t dare guess he’d make it so early! How old is he? Can’t be much more than twenty-one!’

‘He was nineteen in June,’ I replied, my mind still on other matters.

‘Nineteen! By Jove! It’s not completely unprecedented, I suppose, but still, what an achievement! And to play in _Australia–!_ D’you think he’ll bring any newspaper clippings back with him? I’m sure he will, if his name is in the papers, which of course it will be. I wonder if he’ll bring them down for me to take a look, if he comes down for the Old Boys’ Match in the summer?’

‘Not Raffles,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘He never reads about himself.’

‘Really? I know I would, if I got in the paper! I’d have a whole scrapbook dedicated to myself!’ Dodo grinned. ‘Gosh, but imagine us, knowing a first-class Test cricketer, Harry!’

‘What do you think he meant by saying he wasn’t going back to Oxford?’ I wondered aloud.

‘I’d imagine he meant he’s not going back to Oxford,’ Dodo shrugged. ‘It’s not all that cryptic, old boy.’

‘Yes, but _–_ Well, he seemed to be enjoying it so much; or, at least, he was enjoying the art side of it. And he was getting on so well at the Ruskin school; he sent a few sketches down in his last letter, and he’d improved so much. _And_ he didn’t fail prelims, he says as much here.’

‘Maybe he got Sent Down?’

‘Raffles wouldn’t get Sent Down,’ I snapped, defensively _–_ and I believed it. I didn’t doubt that he _may_ have done things which would warrant being Sent Down, if his midnight adventures at school were any sort of precedent, but Raffles was far too clever to _get caught_.

‘Maybe he’s chucking it in for cricket?’ Dodo suggested. ‘I mean, as he said, it’s a fair old trek from here to Australia; he’ll be missing all of Michaelmas term, and from the sounds of it a decent chunk of Hilary, too.’

‘But couldn’t he simply defer a year? Why would he leave altogether?’

‘Harry, I really feel you are focusing on very much the _least interesting_ part of your pal’s letter. Raffles is playing for England, Harry! England!’

I mustered up a smile. ‘Lucky for England, eh?’

‘Lucky for _us_!’ Dodo grinned back. ‘I wonder if he’ll let me interview him for the Sports pages of the mag?’

‘Maybe,’ I replied, somewhat apathetically. I suddenly felt entirely disinclined to talk about Raffles, even to Dodo. Usually he was my favourite topic of conversation, but something in his letter had given me pause, and I couldn’t quite figure out what. It wasn’t anything he had said, so much as what he _hadn’t_ said – though that, I came to learn, was very often the case with Raffles. I needed to sit down and read his letter a few more times before I could set my mind at ease over it. Hopefully, I told myself, I was simply overthinking things; imagining underlying melancholy where none existed. Raffles had been selected for the England team, after all! What had he to be unhappy about?

‘What’s yours say?’ I asked Dodo, blinking out of my contemplations. 

‘My what?’

‘Your letter, stupid!’

‘Oh! Yes! I don’t know, let’s have a look. It’s definitely from my Uncle Ted; see, that’s his wax seal on the back, with a _lion_ on. He only uses that one when he sends letters to me, because apparently it’s too gauche to send to anyone else, but he loves it nonetheless, and so always stamps my letters with it, because I don’t care if it’s not fashionable, I think it’s _brilliant_!’

‘I like it. More people should have animals on their stamps. Monograms are very dull.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Dodo laughed, before ripping into his letter and leaning against me, angling the paper so that I might read it over his shoulder if I so wished.

But as Dodo read, rather than read along with him, I instead drifted back into contemplating Raffles on his ship, sailing around the coast of Africa. I could see him standing up on the bow, leaning over the railings, the sea breeze jostling his curls and making them wild, his skin bronzing beneath the Atlantic sun, the smile on his lips filled with adventure and curiosity and that particular brand of enthusiasm so unique to Raffles. The whole world was opening up to Raffles, as it ought, because surely if anyone deserved the world it was him, whilst I was still stuck in a dreary, damp corner of England. Something in the thought of that sent a peculiar pang through my chest. I was happy for Raffles of course; _of course_ I was happy for him. And practically speaking it made no difference to me where he was; as far as my relationship with the boy – the young man – was concerned, Oxford was as far away from me as Australia. But _knowing_ he was so far off, having such adventures, meeting new people, running beneath new skies – it hurt me in a way I would never have expected. I could feel rising once again those particular, painful feelings of loneliness I’d long since managed to banish. It wasn’t pleasant; and neither was the guilt I felt for feeling anything but gladness for him. But I couldn't help but hate the fact he was so very far away.

I was roused suddenly from my despondent daydreaming by a gasp to my right, and a hand upon my arm.

‘What is it?’ I said, turning to my friend. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I– I don’t know,’ came Dodo’s ambiguous response. His warm, brown face had paled, and his eyes wore a searching, conflicted, anxious expression entirely out of place on a boy whose placidity was usually ruffled by nothing other than cricket.

‘Dodo?’

‘It’s– It’s my Uncle Ted,’ he replied, slowly. ‘He – Harry, he wants me to come and _live_ with him and his wife. They want to– They want to _adopt_ me.’

‘Oh! Oh, Dodo!’ I exclaimed, clasping my friend by the shoulder. ‘Oh, but Dodo, that’s _brilliant_ , isn’t it? You hate living with your grandparents, and you’ve always gotten on so much better with your Uncle! And if he’s moving back to England for good–’

‘That’s the thing,’ Dodo replied, biting his lip. ‘He isn’t.’

‘What?’

‘He wants to take me back with him to Australia.’

I felt the air get sucked from my lungs as though I’d been punched in the gut. ‘What?’

‘He’s going back there. His wife, my Aunt Millie, she’s Australian, and she’s just inherited– oh I don’t know _something_ out there, and Uncle Ted’s packed in his job in America, and– And, well, you know my asthma has been getting so much worse, and my doctor keeps saying that I need to be in a better climate for it… Apparently Australia is ideal for asthma. Uncle Ted writes that–’ Dodo broke off and pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his spectacles, ‘–he writes that he’s been trying to get my grandfather to agree to let them to take guardianship of me for _years_ , but you know what grandfather is like, and– But he’s finally agreed.’

‘Australia?’ I said, dully. 

‘Yes; just like Raffles,’ Dodo said with a wan smile. ‘But he’s coming back. I’m supposed to stay out there _for good._ ’

‘Do you– Do you want to go?’

‘I don’t want to live with my grandparents anymore,’ Dodo said with feeling. ‘They _hate_ me.’

‘They don’t _hate_ you, Dodo.’

‘Well they don’t like me very much. And I hate having to go back there every vac’. It's hell, Harry. And you know how fond I am of my Uncle Ted, and Aunt Millie is the loveliest creature under the sun. If a chap could pick a new mother, there’s no better candidate alive. But…’

...‘But Australia is terribly far away,’ I said, finishing his sentence, and Dodo nodded. ‘When would you be leaving? If you go?’

‘After Christmas,’ Dodo replied in a faraway voice. 

‘...So soon?’

‘I know. It’s because– Well, Uncle Ted didn’t want to say anything to me until grandfather had agreed for definite, and– Grandfather didn’t want him to write to me at all, said he could tell me when I got back for the vac’, but Uncle Ted knows how fond I am of school, and thought I might want to– to say goodbye, first. If I agree to go, that is. He did emphasise that I’m to think about it very seriously, and that he won’t be at all offended if I say no. But he also told me to think of my health, and the better opportunities I’ll have over there, and how good Australian cricket is… Oh, Harry,’ Dodo said, clutching at my sleeve and looking at me with imploring dark eyes, ‘what the hell am I supposed to do? Oh, I wish he’d never even thought of it! If he hadn’t, I could have put up with my awful grandfather and my controlling grandmother, and all the rest of it with a stiff upper lip; but how can I stay there now, knowing I might be with Uncle Ted and Aunt Millie instead!’

‘Go, then,’ I said.

‘But how can I _go_!’ he cried, running his fingers through his neat, dark hair and messing it up terribly. ‘I’ve just been put in charge of the Sports column in the mag!’

‘That’s hardly reason not to go to Australia, Dodo!’

‘It’s not just that, it’s _everything_ , Harry. My _life_ is here, my school, my friends…’ he paused and looked down at the letter still in his hands, which were trembling, his lower lip beginning to quiver. ‘ _You’re_ here, Harry. How can I leave _you_? You’re my best friend.’

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t trust myself to say anything that wasn’t completely selfish. I didn’t trust myself to speak at all without crying and showing myself up – and though Dodo had seen me cry plenty of times and never cared a bit, I didn’t want to make him feel guilty. I didn’t want to show just how much the thought of him leaving me was breaking my heart. And so instead of speaking, I took Dodo’s hand in mine, and rested my head on his shoulder in silence. 

He was my best friend. I couldn’t even begin to imagine school without him. No, I _could_ imagine it – I simply didn’t want to. I hated school. I was bullied relentlessly by boys and teachers alike, and I was terrible at sports in a school where to be anything other than an athlete was worse than being a leper. I liked poetry, and writing, and Latin, and little else. Even the other boys who wrote for the mag, with whom I at least didn’t have an antagonistic relationship, didn’t like me very much, and I didn’t particularly care for them. Raffles had been the one saving grace during my first year at school; a lighthouse in a sea of fog and despair; my one point of light to look towards to feel _hope_ . But Dodo? Dodo had been the very earth beneath my feet. When everything else was chaotic, and horrible, and insurmountable, when I’d felt as though I couldn’t take any of it anymore, Dodo had been there beside me, ever ready with a patient ear and a refreshingly prosaic approach to life’s problems. I didn’t know how I would get through every day without Dodo there, reading aloud from his _Wisden_ , laughing at my jokes, cheering me up on bad days and making good ones better. I’d all but lost Raffles, how could I lose Dodo, too? 

‘You should go with them,’ I said quietly after we had been sitting together in silence for a while, Dodo’s cheek resting against the top of my head, both of his hands clasped around mine. ‘Your asthma is only going to keep getting worse, Dodo, and you’ll be so much happier with your aunt and uncle. If you don’t go, you’re the biggest idiot in the whole world.’

Dodo sniffed and let go of my hand to dash tears from his eyes. ‘But I don’t _want_ to go,’ he said. ‘Or, rather, I _do_ , but I also don’t. If I could take you with me, Harry, I’d be gone in a flash. I don’t suppose your parents would consider putting their only child up for adoption? I’d rather like you as a brother.’

‘They’d probably swap me for a better son, if they could,’ I said with grim humour, ‘but I doubt they’d give me up for free. They put so much stock in inheritance; it really is ironic that their inheritor is of such bad stock.’

‘I wouldn’t want to give you up either, if I were them,’ Dodo laughed, a little sadly. He was never one to indulge or validate my self-pity, never one to take my moping with gravity, always ready to think the best of me in spite of all evidence to the contrary. ‘What am I meant to do without you, Harry?’

‘You’ll be all right,’ I said, meaning it. Dodo _would_ be fine. It was _me_ I was so selfishly worried about. ‘You’ll make bunches of other friends,’ I said with as much jollity as I could muster. ‘Better ones than me; ones who are good at cricket.’

‘I don’t want friends who are good at cricket.’

‘...You have to go, Dodo. You really, really do. You know you do.'

‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘You’re right. You usually are. I’m just – I’m really going to _miss_ you, Harry. More than anything. More than _Lords_.’

‘I’ll miss you too,’ I replied, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice. ‘But we can write to one another; that’ll be fun! Hey, you could be the International Sports Correspondent for the mag!’

Dodo laughed, and sniffed, and held my hand more tightly. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s actually a good idea, you know.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised; I do occasionally have them.'

‘Harry, why don’t you come and stay over with me for a week or so, before I leave?’

‘Over Christmas? I don’t think your grandfather would like that. He was cross enough when I came over during the _summer_ because it interfered with his stupid bowls club meeting.’

‘Oh, to hell with him!’ Dodo said with some vigour. ‘He’s not in charge of me anymore, and horrible as he is, he wouldn’t turn a boy out into the cold once he’s physically on his doorstep. And Uncle Ted will be so happy to see you, he’ll deal with Grandfather. Oh, Harry, please come? We’ll have the jolliest time, I promise, and you don’t have to stay for Christmas Day, if your parents won’t allow it, but– But, look, why don’t you just come down with me tomorrow? Don’t bother going home first, come straight along with me. My house – my grandparents’ house is sort of on the way to Hayward Heath, isn’t it? It’ll be more like a– a brief stopover on your way home. Please say you’ll come Harry? Otherwise we shan’t see each other again, and I – I won’t go to Australia, if you don’t!’

‘You’re an idiot,’ I smiled, bumping my shoulder against his. ‘Course I’ll come. My parents won’t like it, but when do they ever like anything I do?’

‘Brilliant!’ Dodo said with genuine cheer, and the smile which broke across his soft brown face as I shifted to sit up and look at him was filled with such sincere elation that I could almost forget how sorry I was that he was going to leave me. He would be so much happier with his aunt and uncle. Dodo was getting a real fairytale ending, and he deserved it. He’d had more than his fair share of tragedy in his short life, though you’d never know it to speak with him; he was long overdue some real happiness. Whereas I had lived a life of low-grade, nondescript, dull misery; nothing sufficiently tragic, nothing sufficiently joyful, only endlessly grey mediocrity and disappointment. It seemed that I was never destined to be any sort of protagonist, not even in my own story, and side characters in life never get happy endings, or definitive endings, or even tragic endings. We live between the pages of other, better people's lives, and simply carry on, until one day we don’t, and fade away, unmissed. ‘We’ll have great fun, Harry! If it’s my last Christmas in England for a long while, and my last for a long while with _you_ , then by Jove, let’s make it the best!’

I opened my parcel from Raffles, that night. I had intended to wait until Christmas morning, to sit awake until midnight in my room and let it be the very first present I unwrapped, all by myself, almost as though it were just me and Raffles together as the rest of the world slept, unawares. But as I sat in my bed behind my partition, the snores and movements of the three other boys with whom I shared a room softly filling the heavy night-time air around me, I found myself subsumed by a creeping, gnawing, all-consuming sense of despair. I glanced out of the window at the cold, open night beyond, up at the stars, down at the frost-painted ground, and briefly contemplated following in Raffles’ footsteps and escaping the suffocating confines of the dormitory, if only for an hour, if only for some air, if only for a brief distraction from my grief. But, unlike Raffles, I had no one to let me back in again. I had no one to wait for me. I had no one. And so I opened my present early, at one-thirty in the morning on the last day of the Autumn term, to cheer myself up.

It was a book. A small book. A “Vest-Pocket” edition of _The Eve of St. Agnes_ , and other selected poems, by John Keats. It was a beautiful, tidy, tiny volume, far from new, but all the better to my eyes for bearing signs of wear and love. And better still, inside the front cover was a short additional note from Raffles, and a handwritten dedication which read, simply, _To Bunny_. Though it was little, and though it couldn’t replace all that I had lost, all that I would shortly lose, and all that I had never had, somehow holding that book gave me the little burst of strength I needed to push on through. It gave me the courage I needed to be gladder for my friend than I was sad for myself, and to smile, and be merry, and to make sure that Dodo’s last Christmas in England was filled only with the best of memories. 

He left early that January. We wrote back and forth for a few years, and then, one year, I don’t even remember which, we just – stopped. I faded from his life, as I faded from so many others, unremarkable and unremarked.

Raffles never wrote to me again. I never received the note telling me of his new address. I learned from the papers that he did at least make it back to England following his Australian tour; that he had started the following year at Cambridge; that he helped them to trounce Oxford at cricket four years running. But he never wrote to me again. And it wasn’t until many, many years later that I finally discovered why. 

But for that Christmas in 1882, in spite of Dodo soon to be leaving for the other side of the world, and Raffles being – _wherever_ he was, as I sat in the library of Dodo’s grandparents’ grand house, the fire blazing, Dodo’s Uncle Ted enthusiastically telling tales of his adventures – half of which I felt sure were made up – and being offered all of the warmth, appreciation, and care that I so rarely got at either home or school, with Raffles’ gift of Keats’ poetry weighing securely in the pocket over my heart, I felt, for just a brief moment, as far away from _alone_ as it was possible to be. I felt, for just a brief moment, _loved_.

* * *

**_Raffles’ note in St. Agnes Eve & Selected Odes_ **

_Dear Bunny,_

_You really ought to read more Keats, my dear boy. You are well up on your Rossetti, and you know your Browning better than I do, but your Keats is distinctly lacking. This will not do, Bunny, and so I am sending you my own personal copy of The Eve of St. Agnes. The illustrations in it aren’t the best, but I’ve added some of my own sketches in the margins and title pages to liven it up a bit for you_ – _and hidden a few rabbits throughout! Defacing books is probably a terrible sin, and I don’t doubt Dante would have carved out a little corner of hell for such sinners had he thought of it, but I’ve never been one for following rules_ – _as you of all people know only too well!_

_St. Agnes, and the Odes, are among my favourite poems in this world, Bunny. I hope you find as much joy, as much courage, and as much cause for reflection within them as I have._

_Merry Christmas, Bunny._

_Your pal,_

_A.J._

**Author's Note:**

> This story thread continues in _Unsent_  
>  https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996336


End file.
